The Devil Incarnate
by onlystardust
Summary: Sévérine saw her death in him/Silva saw fractured pieces of Tiago in her. Suffering by nature or chance never seems so painful as suffering inflicted on us by the arbitrary will of another - for Raoul Silva, there is no greater pain than the agony of betrayal. This is not a tale of redemption; this is a story of wolves, demons and the Devil incarnate. Silva/Sévérine, Sévérine/OC.


_The wolf changes his coat,  
but not his disposition_.

.

Wolves.

Hungry eyes, claws on skin, ripping, tearing, devouring. Her sobs are stifled as she bites down on her tongue, bites down on words and tears until she can taste blood. He holds her afterwards, his paws rest gently on her skin as though this act of perceived kindness and gentleness makes up for such degradation.

It doesn't.

Sévérine slips out of his arms while he is sleeping soundlessly, undisturbed and unaware. His breathing hitches, as though he is suddenly aware of her absence, and she halts in her movements, high heels in her hands as she turns a fraction towards his slumbering figure, dark hair matted to his forehead as he rolls over, completely and utterly unaware of her absence.

Once in the hallway, she slides the door shut softly behind her, slipping into her high heels as she wipes at her cheeks, silently chiding herself for crying once again. She joins those downstairs, slowly weaving throughout bustling crowds, conglomerates of boisterous business men and scantily dressed sex slaves waiting to be bought for the evening.

He finds her.

Sévérine runs.

Tears stream down her cheeks as she stumbles out of the backdoor of the den, hair a mess and silver sequin dress nearly torn to shreds as she starts to run faster, desperation evident in each step she takes as she vainly attempts to outrun her fate, pulling her worn cardigan tighter around her shoulders as she runs on unsteady feet.

Fear of the unknown is forgotten as she submerges into the night, darting down a dimly lit alleyway and into the shadows without sparing a second thought as to what monsters could be prowling the night in the form of men. She knows what demons lurk in the darkness, for she was born in these shadows, and she is aware of what such creatures would do to her if given the chance, but she does not necessarily fear such a fate, for the sound of heavy footsteps pounding on the pavement behind her instill a greater sense of dread within her.

When the heel of her right shoe snaps, breaking beneath her, she could nearly crumble with it, she could collapse and accept her fate as inevitable, but the adrenaline coursing throughout her veins and the desire to attain the unattainable is what pushes her forward. She allows for both of her high heels to slip off as she continues to run, black stockings on cold pavement now as she perseveres; she knows that this is forbidden, running is unacceptable and unforgivable behaviour, this is quite possibly the most foolish act she has ever committed, but she longs for the taste of freedom.

Sévérine falls ungracefully to her knees, scraping her hands and tearing the thin fabric of her black stockings, but she manages to pick herself up, legs wobbly and knees stinging as she attempts to break out into a sprint, but she has never had such luck; she cries out when they catch her, because they always do, he always, her fate shall always come to claim her, but that doesn't stop her from crying out as she is caught, as she is roughly grabbed by the hair and pulled backwards.

A hand clamps down harshly over her mouth, smothering her protest, before one of Sergei's men slams her up against the wall abruptly, rendering her breathless as her back hits the brick wall. She gasps at such pain, but that pain is soon forgotten as she feels his hand on her hip, holding her in place, before it begins running downwards, downwards, down to the hem of her dress before he slides his hand up her thigh.

Sévérine struggles to remain composed, she whimpers involuntarily at this invasion, such a sight would only cause her employer to cackle with laughter, and she knows that she ought to have become desensitized to such displays long ago, she should be beyond the point of being bothered by such an unwelcome intrusion, but she still holds her naivety, a childish trait that often sees her under scrutiny as the men who she is marketed to tend to like it when she weeps, they cherish her tears, for they believe that it is out of pleasure rather than out of disgust over degradation.

A distorted sound rings out throughout the silence, raspy and raw, too similar to the growl of an animal that it could not possibly belong to a man. "Giving up, hm?" he asks, the words are almost mocking, as though he is amused, entertained by the scene set out before him, and the mere sound of his voice causes her skin to crawl.

The hand on her thigh stills.

"So easily." he sighs.

Such an unnatural noise sends shivers down her spine, and that is before the stranger steps forward from the shadows slowly, face concealed by a black shawl that allows for only his eyes to be seen. The weak light of the moon does not allow for Sévérine to discern their colour, all she can tell is that they are pale, perhaps even paler than the greying moon above.

Her breathing hitches when he meets her eyes, for his gaze is sharp, piercing, soft for a fleeting second before it hardens, turning harsh and unforgiving. "I'm not giving up," she longs to say, uncertain why she feels the need to justify herself to the stranger, but a hand is still clamped down hard over her mouth, "I'm giving in."

"They want you to give up." he states, not at all bothered by the broad-shouldered brutes bearing weapons that they are most willing to use at their disposal, and as they aim their guns at the pale eyed man, fingers on the trigger, he simply laughs, laughs loudly, hoarsely, and it is an awful sound, a strangled sound, a gargle that unnerves her two captors, who glance cautiously between one another before settling their eyes back on the stranger.

The hand on her thigh is gone, it now rests on the trigger of a black pistol that is pointed at the forehead of the pale eyed man; it is a kill shot, and yet the man strolls forward slowly, almost casually, eyes on Sévérine and only Sévérine as he steps closer. He examines her closely, but there is a striking difference between his eyes and the eyes of those with their hands on her thighs, those who buy her for the evenings: there is no hunger in his stare.

His eyes are frighteningly blank, indifferent, and rather than primal hunger there is apathy in its stead. "They want you to give in, to give yourself over to them _again_ and _again_ and _again_, and you will." he says, eyes still scrutinizing her as he inches closer, struggling slightly to articulate each word clearly. "You will give until there is nothing left to give."

A pause.

He regards her sharply. "Then what?"

Sévérine hears the shot before she sees the gun.

The man who held her against the wall drops his hand from her mouth as he discharges his weapon; the sound causes Sévérine to jump involuntarily, as the distinctive _bang_ slices throughout the eerie silence of the night, before she clenches her eyes shut in fear as she hears the weapon fire a second time, a third, before a final fourth.

Sévérine is paralysed, her back is pressed up against the wall as she keeps her eyes closed, always closed, not daring to so much as _breathe _too loudly for fear that they will turn the gun on her too if she should provoke them, but then the barrel of the gun is being pressed into the underside of her jaw and she supposes that this is it, that she has outlived her usefulness, reached her expiration.

It is no longer death that she fears, it is not the pistol being pointed at her, pressed into the soft skin underneath her jaw, that frightens her, it is the sound of a voice, _his_ voice, dangerous and distorted and directly by her ear, causing her to inhale sharply at the sound. He tilts her chin up with the tip of the gun, words more deadly than the weapons he wields, "You give and you _give_, never knowing how to take."

Sévérine starts to shake as he cups the left side of her face, her shoulders tremble slightly as she attempts to suppress her fear, but at the feeling of his hand holding her, unsettling and soft, she cannot help but tremor. "Please." she is pleading, begging, pathetic, and she regrets the words as soon as they escape her lips, for she remembers how most of the men she has dealt with prefer to be in a position of power of their prey.

Upon hearing her plead, he presses the gun in harder, voice almost a snarl as he sharply reprimands her for such a display. "Don't." he growls, words a low warning that evoke an involuntarily whimper from Sévérine, who tilts her head back as she feels the gun digging deeper into her skin. "Shhh. Don't beg. Never beg. You're giving them what they want."

She shifts underneath his hold, careful not to move too abruptly as she struggles to remain still, heart beating erratically as she hears him speak, each word whispered closely, too closely, branding her, imprinting on her memory. "They want you to be weak." he says, voice a low drawl as he drags the pad of his thumb across her cheekbone slowly, wiping away at tears she did not realize she had shed, "Don't be weak."

Sévérine inhales sharply as she feels the gun being pressed into the palm of her hand, eyes snapping open immediately as she stares down at the object which feels foreign in her hold. His hand lingers on her cheek, his eyes never stray from her as he relinquished his hold on her and on the gun, taking two steps backwards before he kicks one of the men who he had previously shot.

The man groans.

He grabs the man by the back of his hair, pulling him up roughly and positioning him so that he is on his knees before Sévérine, his dark eyes desperate as he attempts to silently plead with her not to pull the trigger, and she longs to retreat, to run, to seek solace elsewhere, but then he returns to her side, face concealed by his black shawl, save for his eyes, and he puts his hands on hers and _forces_ her to take a proper hold of the gun.

"Stop giving." he commands, as he positions her fingers on the trigger, and then she is being guided forward slowly, so slowly that she is certain he is savouring each second of this spectacle. He releases his hold on her, taking a step back so that he is standing behind her, a terrifying shadow, a demon, a devil whispering his bidding in her ear. "Learn to take."

Sévérine hesitates, because she is not a killer, because she knows that Sergei will hunt her down and kill her for this, kill her slowly and painfully, he will not let her wither away easily, he will wish to inflict upon her all sorts of torture for such an act of unforgivable betrayal, for she is no more than a belonging and she best act as such, she was foolish to believe that she could have escaped in the first place.

She lowers the gun.

He laughs at her, he makes that awful, scratchy, unsettling sound. "You have nothing to give, but you give anyway." he clucks his tongue at her, chiding her as one would a child. "You have nothing left, so what do you give? Hm? Your life? Learn to _take_."

"His life is not mine to take."

"Your soul is not his to touch, but he takes pieces anyway, hm?" he steps around her, so that he stands between her and the bleeding guard on his knees, and his eyes are blank as he reaches for her hand, the hand that holds the gun, her breath catches when she feels his fingers latch onto her wrist. "And you let him. You let them do this to you. You let them break you little by little."

Sévérine shakes her head, heart pounding loudly as he presses the pistol to her temple, his hand on top of hers as he holds it against her skin, she can feel herself crumbling, breaking, moments away from begging. She tries to reason with him, tries to explain but he does not allow her to, for the very moment she parts her lips to speak he talks over her, voice turned vehemently vicious as he cuts through the silence, "You _let_ them. You let them do this. You are _no_ better. You did this. Now, you have _nothing_ to give. Nothing. Now, you must learn to take."

"I can't."

"Take." he demands.

Sévérine's hands shake.

"Or," he pauses, deliberately.

"We don't decide when we die."

He tries to ignore her remark, but her words resonate within him as he reflects upon those countless days of endless pain and torture, those desperate moments where he clung onto the delusion that the decision to die or to live was in the hands of he who the life belonged to, but he was mistaken. "Take." he repeats, his words a warning she must heed. "Or be taken."

"Be taken." she whispers.

"You give your life?"

"I gave my life long ago."

Eyes darkening, he releases his hold on her harshly, relieving her of the gun, for he has grown impatient with such tiresome ways; indecisiveness irritates him and he sees no point in prolonging the inevitable. "Then you have nothing left to give."

He shoots without hesitation.

There is no remorse, no regret.

The guard falls to the ground, crimson blood flows from his forehead and slowly forms a dark pool of blood around his broken body, and as he turns to her, fixing his translucent eyes on her as he edges closer, there is no flicker of humanity in those pale pools. He speaks slowly, punctuating clearly as he points the gun at her, "I gave you a choice." he explains, gaze unkind and unwavering.

She closes her eyes, terrified.

He sighs, as though she brought this upon herself, and she supposes that she did, that perhaps she sealed her fate the exact moment she submerged into the night. "Now, I'm taking it back." he tells her, voice devoid of emotion as he condemns her.

Sévérine saw her death in him.

It is said that as you lay dying, your life flashes before your eyes in the form of fractured images, fragments of memories, the entirety of your life is summed up in the space of a few seconds and displayed in the form of fleeting images that flash briefly before you and then you succumb. As Sévérine lay dying, blood oozing out of the wound where the bullet grazed her skin, just above her right ear, she does not see life or love, she sees the devil incarnate; he has translucent eyes and a bloodcurdling laugh.

.

A vision in silver.

Hazelnut eyes held such fear as she shook. Her silver dress, torn in places, exposed patches of bruised skin while her tears turned into glorious silver droplets as they trickled down her cheeks. He recalls the look of resignation in those eyes as he turned the gun on her, before she closed her eyes and quietly accepted her death as though she were deserving of it.

He saw pieces of a past.

In her eyes, Silva saw fragments, fractured pieces of Tiago: pain, suffering, exhaustion from a prolonged existence. He did not pity her, he felt nothing for her, not a pang of remorse, not a sliver of sympathy for her suffering, for she is at fault, she is equally to blame as those men are, the men with their hand on her thigh, sliding higher and higher.

Thinking on her, he snarls.

Stepping in from the night, Silva stalks through the dimly lit lobby, black shawl still intact as he strides forth, hands forming clenched fists by his side as he struggles with the agonizing pain that prevails over all else, a pain resulting from the uncomfortable position of the prosthetic which sharply digs into what remains of his gums and the charred roof of his mouth.

Once inside his suite, he curtly dismisses his men with an abrupt wave, signalling for them to return to their room, which is adjacent to his, through the adjoining doors. He halts at the nightstand, eyes having fallen on the Jewel of Russia Classic bottle with the red ribbon tied around it. Swiping the bottle from the nightstand, he turns towards the bathroom, deciding that, although this is not his preferred poison of choice, the vodka shall suffice.

Toeing out of his shoes, he discards of his socks at the doorway before stepping inside. He sets the bottle down on the white marble benchtop in the bathroom, pausing to unscrew the lid before he slowly unwraps his shawl, still marvelling at the manner in which the metal is able to keep his face intact, with the exception of the slight sagging beneath his left eye. His hand hovers near the neck of the vodka bottle as he pauses, contemplating whether or not to remove the prosthetic for the night; the pain associated with the removal is, as expected, excruciating, but it is not nearly as painful as the agony brought on by betrayal.

This pain is bearable.

Sighing, he thumbs the dried blood that stains the right sleeve of his black coat, cursing underneath his breath before he sheds that layer of clothing and sets it down on the marble. He drinks a generous amount of vodka before he proceeds to remove his clothes slowly, meticulously folding each article as he sheds them, setting them down on the benchtop before he stares back at his reflection: unkind eyes, unnatural hair colour, and an unsettling smile.

He is unrecognisable.

There is no tremor to his hands, no shake to his shoulders, he has no tell as he stands before the mirror, impassive and stripped down to his undergarments, scars standing out on his skin like exclamation marks; varying from deep scars, jagged scars, surgical scars, superficial and self-inflicted scars, some are short and precise while others run the length of his leg, from thigh to ankle.

As he removes the prosthetic, he shows no sign that he is in any sort of agony, with the exception of one involuntary wince as the metal scrapes against the charred, tender skin. He holds the prosthetic out before him, dangling it over the sink, it is slick with spit and blood, before he hacks harshly and brings up dark blood and mucus that stains the pristine white basin.

Silva snatches at the bottle on the benchtop and drinks from it; he gargles, rinses, and then spits more blood into the basin, before he turns the taps on and begins rinsing the prosthetic underneath the tepid water. He vigorously cleans the metal, but he knows that, regardless of the rinsing and the sanitizing, the taste of blood will linger.

It always lingers.

Once, he had scrubbed at his skin, scrubbed at it until it was raw, raw and near the point of bleeding, but he could not remove the blood that stained him, therefore he learnt to live with it, to embrace it, to let it brand him, remind him, always remind him, such as how the metal digging into his mouth reminds him of his miseries.

Hissing, he replaces the prosthetic after he has bathed and dressed. "Do you know how to get blood out of Prada?" he asks, almost conversationally, without looking up from the coat he examines closely in his hands. He turns slowly, solemn expression in place, to face the figure by the door, the figure who leans against the doorframe nonchalantly, in a leather jacket with his arms crossed over his chest.

Viktor shakes his head, once.

Silva grins, unsettling and wide. "Then what use are you to me?"

"Mr Silva." Viktor holds out his hand.

"_Oof_. Formalities. Mr _Alexandrov_." Silva mutters, more to himself than to Viktor, shaking his head as he swipes the bottle of vodka from the benchtop, before stepping closer, intrigued by the sight of a stranger he has not seen for years. "All these years and you have not changed, hm?"

Viktor stands proud, always has. "Some things are not subject to change over the course of time, comrade." he says, disregarding the obvious and drastic alteration of his appearance and his transformation of character from Tiago to Raoul, for he is not without his own deformities, his own secrets. "You are looking well."

Silva rolls his eyes, unconvinced. "Always a liar."

Retrieving two glasses, Silva pours them each a generous amount of Jewel of Russia Classic. He sets them down on the coffee table before he waves Viktor over, watching him quizzically as he settles down onto the arm-char opposite him. "All these years, hm? Did you find what you were searching for?" Silva queries, he sips from his glass as he awaits his answer.

Viktor shakes his head curtly.

"No matter. You will, in time."

"You are looking well." he repeats.

Silva laughs. "_Well_? Strange. I was handsome once, hm? Now, I am _well_."

Viktor smiles, amused. "You look well."

"Perhaps." Silva reluctantly concedes.

Silva had looked horrific the last time he saw Viktor; he was a ghastly sight, a true horror, face falling to pieces, the putrid odour of decay and death surrounded him. "I did not recognize you at first, Raoul." he confesses, drinking the remaining contents of his drink before he continues. "You look a different man."

"A different man? No. I think not. A different exterior does not necessitate a different interior, hm?" he pauses, frowning as his eyes flicker up to Viktor's hair, to the grey strands which stand out amongst the brown. "But you have changed, no? You have. You have been subjected to the course of time; you are greying. You look old."

"I am not blessed with immortality."

Silva purses his lips. "Immortality."

Viktor sighs, belatedly recalling his error.

Pausing, Silva appears deep in thought. "It was Schopenhauer who said 'to desire immortality is to desire the eternal perpetuation of a great mistake', hm? Immortality is no blessing. But you know that, don't you? You know. This is not living. We are no more living than we are dying. Balancing somewhere in between, hm?"

Standing abruptly, Silva turns towards a small wooden cabinet with a silver tray of crystal glasses and decanters on it, before pouring two generous glasses of Macallan. He does not notice Viktor as he stands from his chair, stepping closer slowly, almost cautiously. Viktor silently accepts his drink. "To balancing." he dryly remarks, raising his glass in salute to Raoul, before tossing it back. He does not live in a state of equilibrium, nor does Raoul Silva. Death has forsaken them, and balance shall only be restored once their situations are rectified.

"You could have this fixed, hm?" Silva observes, thumb briefly brushing over the predominant scar on Viktor's right cheek; a jagged scar in the shaped of the letter **Y**. It is an ugly scar, hard to miss and even harder to disguise, but it could be easily fixed.

"I could." he concedes.

Silva smiles, amused. "But you won't."

He does not cover his own scars out of a sense of shame or disgust, but rather because they are _his_ scars on _his _body, they are for his eyes only. Also, for the sheer sake of necessity, it is paramount that he proceeds with his plans, unnoticed, for one scarred as severely as he is would surely draw undesired attention, from past or future adversaries, if he were to parade around with his scars bared for all to see.

.

Sévérine sits before an oval mirror, a vanity to be precise, her hands trembling only slightly as she struggles to spark up her lighter. She refuses to face her reflection, refuses to see how obvious it is that she has been crying, smeared makeup smudged beneath her puffy eyes, lips quivering as she manages to light the cigarette and carefully place it between the part of her lip that isn't swollen.

She bathes, but the blood remains.

Now, she sits on the very edge of the single bed, shivering from the cold and the fear as she waits, always waits, dreading and fearing the inevitable. Her damp hair is swept over one shoulder, towel wrapped around her as she stares off blankly, so consumed with her thoughts that she does not hear the _click_ of the door behind her.

She cries when she is summoned.

His eyes flicker over her as she is flung into the line-up, but then his eyes stray away from her and fall onto the face of the one beside her, the curvaceous one with hair like silk and deep blue eyes, but Sévérine is not surprised that she was glanced over. She is hardly at her best, her face is blotchy from crying and bruised from Sergei, and she did not expect to be selected.

"Her." he grunts.

It is only as she is being whisked away, a hand roughly ripping her away from the line-up, does she realize that she has been sold for the evening. Sergei hisses in her, curses her and threatens her, tells her she best be on her best behaviour, his nails dig into her skin as he shouts orders at the remaining girls to return to their rooms for the evening, but she is not bothered by the marks, for what is yet another bruise, another scar.

The bullet grazed her temple.

Sévérine cries because it didn't kill her.

.

A/N: I'm quite invested in my other ff stories, but I couldn't help but write this. Javier Bardem was captivating as Silva and I hope that I've done the character justice. Sévérine interested me as I believe that there was a lot more to her character that wasn't explored. This isn't a strictly Silva/Sévérine story, but they are the main pairing. Viktor is an OC of mine and is partially inspired by Viggo Mortensen in 'Eastern Promises' - if you haven't seen it, go see it.

This is not a story about redemption. There is no glorious, redeeming moment for Raoul Silva where he acts selflessly and sacrifices his life for another. Silva is manipulative, mad and marvellous to write because of all his 'quirks' (if you could call them that). This isn't a story about love either, as (imo) Silva is incapable of love and Sévérine doesn't believe there is such a thing, not with someone like Silva anyway. However, there will be some standout moments between the two.

This is a story about fate, inevitability and death, set before and during the events of Skyfall.

With that said, enjoy :)

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